


The Way Forever Speaks

by Oaklin



Series: Forever Everything [63]
Category: Jersey All Pro Wrestling, Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Friendly banter, Hugs, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Swearing, aggressive affection, can't decide if Rodderick/Jack is a thing in this one or not, casual physical intimacy, eh fuck it, kinda goes without saying in a wrestling fic i would assume, obligatory Kevin Steen warning, stealth angst, stealth romance, stealth shipping here we come, that sounds way meaner than it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-15 01:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11795415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oaklin/pseuds/Oaklin
Summary: A long winded rambly fic in which Steen contemplates the futility of resisting the suns warmth, while trying his damnedest not to make friends.He gets confused and then fails spectacularly, is what I'm getting at. Like always.





	The Way Forever Speaks

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> So, if I have my syntax right the Spanish here should be put together somewhat accurately. No promises, it has been a LONG time, and as we all know google translate is not the most precise sometimes. Anyway, translations;
> 
> Si- y'all know what this means. In case you don't, it means yes.  
> Lo hice- I did it  
> Maravilloso- Wonderfull  
> Amigo- Friend  
> Mi amigo- My friend  
> Mi amigo mas increible-My most incredible friend  
> Bailar conmigo- Dance with me  
> Me encanta la vida- I love life  
> Amo todo- I love everything  
> Esto es lo mejor- This is the best
> 
> Kevin cut him off, but for the record, te amo means I love you.

The locker room is mercifully quiet, or at least as quiet as wrestling locker rooms ever get. Kevin inhales, wrinkling his nose at the stale stench of sweat and disappointment permeating the chilled air around him. He stalks over to the single bench that occupies the tiny, windowless room. Choosing not to examine the foreboding looking stains on the bench, he lowers himself down, letting a slight smirk cross his face when he manages to jostle Punk. Punk predictably flips him off, which Kevin responds to in kind, shifting around to get at least somewhat comfortable as the chipped wood of the bench digs into the backs of his thighs.

(gonna have a million splinters)

_-what a tragedy-_

Kevin snorts, cracking his neck and dragging his bag across the floor with his foot.

“You lookin’ to start a mother fucking earthquake there, you fat fuck?” Punk snarks, his incisors flashing as he casts a sideways glance at Kevin, a glint in his eyes that Kevin reads as a challenge.

“Maybe. Watching the earth swallow your skinny ass whole would be semi amusing,” Kevin deadpans, bending down and rifling through his bag with a flourish, shaking the bench as much as he can with such miniscule movements.

Punk casts him an unamused face, the corners of his lips only barely twitching as he and Dragon bob slightly with the motion of their shared seat. Kevin just smirks, digging around in the bottom of his bag for his tape, ignoring the way Punk is now deliberately crowding him as the other man cinches down his boots. Slamming said boots on the dirty tile floor, Punk leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and angling his clenched jaw in Kevin’s general direction.

“If Roderick wasn’t already going to beat your ass tonight, I sure as fuck would be doing it, for the rest of our sanity.”

Kevin barks out a laugh at that. “Oh really? Taking one for the team, eh?”

Punk rolls his eyes. “Goddamn Canadian piece of shit.”

Punk flops his feet forward, still taking up way too much space, Kevin marveling slightly at the way the scrawny bitch can even manage it in the first place with how puny he is. Still, Kevin just shrugs and elbows the asshole, shoving him in the process of reaching down to search the outside pockets for his missing tape.

(could swear it was in the inside flap)

_-fucking idiot-_

“You could at least stay on your side of the locker room,” Punk continues to complain, as if anyone gives a shit what he thinks.

“Are you actually fucking brooding right now? The fuck, I know your match is after mine, but shouldn’t you be getting ready or some shit?”

Punk snort-laughs at that, reaching out and swiping Kevin across the arm as Kevin attempts to snatch the roll of tape that Punk has sliding along his forearm, like the worlds saddest wrist band.

“No, I don’t have to do anything to prepare. I’m excellent as it is, the fuck do I need to get ready for?”

(arrogant fucker)

_-what a coincidence-_

(fuck you)

(at least I can back it up)

_-never underestimate your opponents-_

(not my opponent)

(not tonight anyway)

“Besides,” Punk continues. “I figured I was allowed to brood in the locker room if I wanted. What, are you the only one who can be a sulky little preteen? Are you mad that I’m invading your territory or something?”

Kevin opens his mouth to retort, but his train of thought is cut off as he finally rediscovers his lost roll of tape. Tucked into one of the outside pockets of his gym bag (a pocket he could swear he has never put his tape in) is the adhesive material in question. Kevin blinks, holding the role aloft and looking at the marks with bewilderment, and then irritation.

“That little piss-poor excuse for a-”

“The fuck is there a lover letter written on your tape, you goddamn weirdo?” Punk asks, leaning back and giving the roll of tape clasped in Kevin’s fingers a once over.

“It is not a love letter,” Kevin grouses, tempted to pull the tape out of sight, oddly reluctant to have everyone’s eyes on it, for reasons that make his head hurt.

“Looks like one,” Dragon pipes up, unhelpfully.

“Well it isn’t, you nosy fucks. **_He_ ** just wrote fucking Spanish gibberish all over it, is all.”

Punk makes a face at that, a look crossing his face like he is about to launch into some sort of inane rant.

“Yeah, about that. What, _exactly_ , is the deal with the whole-” Punk makes a gestures with his hands, looking perplexed, though Kevin isn’t sure what Generico’s face has to do with anything, or why Punk would throw up a peace sign whilst miming what Kevin can only assume is supposed to be a mask of some sort, “You know. Excitable luchadore thing.”

“What do you mean, what’s the deal? Pretty self explanatory, I think.” Kevin says dismissively, wrapping tape up his arm, ignoring the terms and phrases that he **cannot understand**.

_-some things are universal-_

(fuck you)

“No, I meant the-”

“Man, fuck this and fuck you!”

Punk abruptly stops talking and looks up, his patented scowl skittering across his features. Kevin doesn’t bother to raise his eyes, just lifts a single finger in the air, welcoming the newest addition to this fantastically fucked conversation in the only way he knows how.

Roderick makes a sound of derisive disapproval at the gesture Kevin directs his way. Kevin continues to focus on his task of taping up his arms, deliberately slowing his movements down in the hopes that it will aggravate the jackass stomping across the locker room towards him. Roderick stops just in front of Kevin, his legs the only thing Kevin can see in his peripheral vision. Kevin makes the impatient man wait, running a thumb along the edges of the adhesive to smooth it flush with his skin before he finally looks up, meeting Roderick’s stern countenance with as much disinterest as he can summon.

“I wouldn’t touch you with a fifty foot pole, Roddy. Fucking keep your sex fantasies about me to your goddamn self, alright?” Kevin advises, after letting the silence drag on for just long enough for it to be strained.

Roderick raises an unimpressed eyebrow at that, looking less put out and more amused than Kevin had hoped.

“Tough talk for a guy with declarations of **_love_ ** on his wrist tape.”

Kevin glances down at his arms before he can stop himself. Forcing his eyes up and forward, his flashes a dangerous smile Roderick’s way and shakes his wrist. The weak lighting of the grungy locker room reflects off the tape snaking up his arm, the red sharpied on letters scrawled across the material in jagged, zig-zagging lines. The writing looks reminiscent of blood for a moment, and Kevin has to pull in a sharp breath through clenched teeth to keep from tearing the crimson stripes from his flesh.

(breath)

**_-fuck-_ **

“I can't read Spanish, and neither do you. Don’t fucking pretend you know what any of this gibberish means. The fuck did you even storm over here for?”

“How the fuck do you _communicate_ with him then-” Roderick screws up his face, looking confused and annoyed, before seemingly waving the inquiry off like an irksome fly. “You know what, never mind. I have shit to do before we go up. I actually just came over here to tell you that you are a-”

“Rick, would you leave the maestro alone, for fucks sake. Can’t you see that he is getting his brood on?”

Kevin snaps his neck in aggravation at all the interruptions, raising an eyebrow at Evans’ approach.

(do we really need more fucking people in this goddamn conversation?)

_-apparently-_

Roderick turns to his companion, looking outraged that he is getting rebuked, “Hey, mind your own business. I’m trying to trash talk over here, and I really don’t need your input on my techniques, alright?”

“Is that what you were doing?” Kevin says, though no one was actually addressing him at all, the bastards. “I couldn’t tell, what with all the inane questions. I almost forgot that you actually got the gumption to challenge for the belt. You should probably toddle off with you boyfriend before you make an even bigger idiot out of yourself.”

Evans rolls his eyes, elbowing Roderick and whispering something in his ear. Roderick turns slightly into the whisper, cupping Evans’ elbow briefly before pulling him to the side and stepping closer to Kevin. Evans crosses his arms and looks slightly annoyed at being pushed aside, but Kevin notes the hint of amused fondness in his eyes as he watches Roderick.

(the fuck is up with everyone)

_-don't be bitter-_

(..not)

_-right-_

“Listen, Steen, no hard feelings or anything, but you have been really off of your game recently. I want all of you tonight, all right? None of that half-assed shit you’ve been doling out lately.”

(the fuck does he know)

_-bastard's been paying attention apparently-_

“I am always on point, so I don’t know what the fuck you are on about-” Kevin starts hotly, glaring with perhaps a bit **-too much-** at Roderick’s stupid, smug fucking face.

Roderick shakes his head, looking disappointed,“Tell that to CC then, because I think he will have some choice words for you about that particular claim to fame, you blustering, dumb ass fool.”

Angrier than he should be Kevin slams the roll of tape down and rises to his feet, hot anger bubbling up the back of his throat.

“The shit do you think you are-”

“Wow, hey, easy!” Evans says hurriedly, trying to slot himself between Roderick and Kevin, though who he is protecting from who is anyone’s guess.

_-the locker room from the both of you, probably-_

(fair)

Kevin reaches forward, thinking of snatching Roderick up and starting their fight early. Jack is very much in the way though, and something about that stays his hand. Roderick reacts on instinct anyway, jerking Evans back and going chest to chest with Kevin. Kevin snorts and glances away, for some reason this whole scenario feeling very familiar, and Roderick's protectiveness making Kevin’s chest _ache_. The ache persists, that ridiculously unnecessary act of defense (like Kevin was **actually** going to hit Evans, or something) making Kevin feel a sharp wave of approval, something very primal and satisfying in the act of witnessing such reckless abandon.

(stupidity)

**_-forever-_ **

(not my problem)

“Alright, alright. Stop it. Save it for later, the both of you," Dragon barks, his tone brokering no argument.

Kevin contemplates taking them both out, but thinks better of it. There is a nagging desire tearing into the back of his mind, an anticipation that feels like it is closing in, drawing closer to the patchy tile that he is standing on. He wants to be attentive when it arrives, this resplendent break in the clouds of such a gloomy, desolate day. So he lets Dragon pull him back, watching Roderick let Evans do the same. Evans is back to whispering things in Roderick's ear, which Kevin can see the other man is listening to rather intently. Still, Roderick spares a moment to nod at Kevin slightly, a promise in the gesture. Kevin finds himself tilting his chin in response, the challenge in Roderick's eyes awakening the beast for a heartbeat, a thrill of adrenaline slicing through Kevin at the thought of their up coming bout.

“See you in the ring then, when those four idiots are done," Roderick says, reaching over to pat Evans on the shoulder. Kevin cocks his head, momentarily fascinated with the way the two interact with each other. Evans seems to take the pat on the shoulder as an indication that Roderick is no longer only a moment away from launching himself into a locker room fight. Evans nods and gently shoulder checks Roderick, turning back to fiddle with his arm bands.

“If they ever get done, that is. Do they always fucking take so goddamn long or-?" Punk starts, his eyes trailing to the door of the locker room.

Kevin is shaking his head and speaking before he even has time to think, or string together a reason he even has an answer to such a question.

“They are already done. The little idiot is really fucking stoked, too," Kevin says to no one in particular, reaching down to pick up the roll of tape from the floor. Tossing it into his bag, he flinches a bit as another bouncing wave of happiness seems to wash over the room, so strong and **_obvious_ ** that he is unsure exactly how _no one_ else even seems to notice.

(about time)

**_-missed-_ **

( ** _he_ ** hasn't even been out there that long)

_-come back-_

**_-need-_ **

“Wait, what do you mean?” Punk asks, looking at Kevin really weirdly.

“He won," Kevin says, looking back down as he snatches at the laces on his boots.

(why is everyone looking at me like that?)

_-telepathy is pretty weird-_

(not telepathy)

(of course i know where he is and what he is feeling)

(can’t fucking escape it)

**_-ever-_ **

(fuck you)

“What?"

“The match, you fucking idiot. He has already won." Kevin clarifies, irritated for reasons that are escaping him at the moment.

“How do you know that, though?"

(ah)

Well.

_-good question-_

(yeah, it is)

_-got an answer?-_

(...no)

Not that it matters.

Not that it _ever_ matters why anything is the way it is with the two of them.

They are what they are, and nothing will ever change that, Kevin is sure.

(not sure of much **else** )

(but that i **_understand_** )

**_-forever-_ **

“You might want to get out of the way,” Dragon says as the sound of pounding footsteps echoes down the hallway like a stampede of elephants.

Kevin doesn’t even bother watching the others scoot out of the way, his eyes seem glued to the door as it slams opens, bouncing off the wall and throwing the moron off balance as he tries to make a dynamic entry and fails spectacularly.

_-unsurprising-_

“Si! Lo hice!” the scrawny, gangly idiot screeches, his voice high and ear splitting as he flings himself into the locker room at full speed.

“Maravilloso!” he cries, careening into Kevin like a freight train of unstoppable joy and delight.

“Nothing is wonderful, get the fuck off me,” Kevin bites out, the words falling out of his mouth more on instinct than anything else. Not that he would say anything other than those words, if his brain would only un-stick itself form the pool of molasses the little ginger moron seems to have dipped his skull in.

(hard to think when he is carrying on like that)

_-sure-_

_- **that** is the problem-_

“Amigo! Mi amigo!” Kevin suppresses a startled hiss as he gets engulfed in a bear hug, the masked fool sliding in low and wrapping his whole upper body around Kevin‘s middle. The slighter (boy) slides to the ground, his body’s downward momentum staggering Kevin slightly. The idiot’s knees hitting the ground -as he latches onto Kevin, like Kevin is a life preserver- make a muted thump that echoes through Kevin‘s ears on a loop, like the locker room that they are standing in is made of aluminum and not concrete and broken dreams.

“The fuck is your problem? You won **one** fucking match, calm the hell down-”

“Mi amigo mas increible! Bailar conmigo~!”

“No! I hate dancing, and you probably have two left feet! Fuck you and get off me, you hyper-active idiot.”

“Me encanta la vida!”

“Do I look like I give a shit what you do or do not think about this miserable existence that we all have to suffer though?”

“Amo todo!”

“That is great, now shut the fuck-”

“Te am-”

_-fuck-_

(No.)

“I swear to fuck, if you don‘t shut your goddamn mouth right this instant, I‘m going to punch your teeth down your scrawny, bony throat.”

_-tough talk for someone who is afraid of **words** -_

(fuck you)

(and him)

(fuck everything)

_-real mature-_

The scraggly loser shakes his head vigorously, denying what exactly, Kevin is not sure. Kevin reaches down and pries those arms from around his waist, gripping wrists briefly before throwing those forearms away from his body. Planting both hands palm down on a pale chest, Kevin ignores the soft strands of copper peach fuzz tickling his fingers, forcing himself to focus as he gives the spindly moron a firm shove.

“You need to just calm the hell down, alright? You didn‘t win the fucking Olympics. God damn relax.”

The face he gets for those words is pitiful. For a split second, what little he can see under that mask twists up into a scrunchy facsimile of sadness, all pouty lips and exaggeratedly slumped shoulders. Kevin rolls his eyes at the display, irritated more than he should by all rights be, given that this is standard behavior.

Not one to be down for long, however, the tiny masked lunatic perks up only a heartbeat later, hoping up on the tips of his toes, index finger thrust high and triumphant as he bounces in place. Kevin opens his mouth to preemptively stave off whatever madness has entered that miniscule brain of his, only to make the mistake of looking directly into that face at the exact wrong moment.

(doesn‘t even make any sense)

(can barely even see his face)

_-you can see enough apparently-_

Enough to let that blinding smile through, so luminant and bright, like a rainbow and a summer day at the exact same time. Right in Kevin‘s fucking eyes, for fucks sake. He reaches up, rubbing at his face, little speckles of green and purple invading his vision, like he had just stared directly into the sun.

Which he sort of had.

So.

Kevin’s resplendent companion doesn‘t heed Kevin‘s discomfort, shouting something more garbled than the idiocy that had already come out of his mouth. Kevin contemplates reaching out and grabbing him, but thinks better of it and presses his fingers to his sore eyes as the moron goes skipping off across the room, crowing at the top of his dumb ass lungs.

“Get down off the goddamn couch! Jesus!”

“Esto es lo mejor!”

“You are the stupidest bitch in the world.”

“Si~!”

**Author's Note:**

> Steen is a liar, never forget that. Not like that would be possible in this fic, he spends basically the whole thing lying to anyone and everyone around him.
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked it. I sure as hell enjoyed writing it. Don't worry, there will be more explorations of tiny Generico and his jank spanglish in the future. I'm not even close to done yet.


End file.
